Late Delivery

It was more than fifty years ago but I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was a delivery boy in India, delivering Times of India in my neighbourhood. The paper had to be on the doorstep by six otherwise the customer did not have to pay. I started at five and was back in bed by six. The money I made paid for the school fees. Life couldn’t be better.

Then a problem arose. One of my best customers was a tall Sikh gentleman of a princely bearing who was always dressed in spotless white and crisply ironed clothes, baggy cotton pants and the long shirt down to his knees. He wore a black turban with his beard held close to his face by bright black netting. He was respectfully addressed as Sardarji by all who knew him. He lived in one of the two adjacent bungalows on Subhash Road, his was elegant with freshly painted walls and clear glass windows with flowery curtains and the other was rather dilapidated with peeling paint and broken glass in the windows with no curtains. While collecting one evening, Sardarji, after giving me an extra rupee as usual, casually asked why his paper had not been arriving till seven. His query perplexed me. I had no answer and I don’t believe Sardarji expected any. However, I decided to make a note of the time of delivery every morning to present him the list at the next collection. I did not need to do it though; the problem was resolved in the most unexpected way.

A couple of days later I was running a little late, breakdown of old delivery truck or something like that, I don’t quite remember why. I carefully placed the paper at Sardarji’s door, walked back to the road and stopped to make note of the time. When I looked up Ramesh, a boy I knew vaguely, was closing the front door of the other bungalow, the paper I had just delivered tucked under his arm. I went back that evening and reported the incident. Sardarji called Ramesh who was playing cricket on the street with his playmates. He confirmed my findings, head bent and tears in his eyes.

Imagine my surprise when Sardarji did not scold the culprit. Instead, he said looking at me, “From tomorrow you deliver the paper at the door of Ramesh.” He then turned to the penitent, “Ramesh, the paper will be delivered to you as long as you make sure that it is at my door by six thirty. Now run up, your team is waiting for you.”

A few years later Sardarji was elected mayor of the town and when he died twenty years after the event I have related, thousands of people attended his funeral. Ramesh went on to attend the best medical college in the country on a full scholarship and his name is revered far and wide, not only for providing excellent medical care but also for helping the poor in many more ways.